


Robin Redbreasts

by oh_cripe_my_fish



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Humour, I like eating cheese and this is cheesy, Love yourself as much as Scotland loves himself and as much as Wales loves rescuing dragons, M/M, Romance, The boys are so in love they are immune to the flu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21877096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_cripe_my_fish/pseuds/oh_cripe_my_fish
Summary: Francis spends the Christmas holidays with Arthur for the first time in a long time and it goes surprisingly well. Far too well. Nationverse. Fruk.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	1. Christmas Eve

**Author's Note:**

> It'll be a Christmas miracle if I get all 3 chapters of this posted before New Years.

Winter's cold breath ghosted along their cheeks and noses, turning them rosy red with the help of a dribble of alcohol in their systems. The bottle of cheap red wine they'd shared within the confines of Arthur's teeny but cozy local pub a hour ago was certainly helping them fight off the cold and keep warm, as was the mulled apple cider they'd sipped on before the tenant shut up shop early (Stepping back out into the snow and away from the central heating being on full blast was almost a relief, truthfully). Now, they were preserving the rest of their body heat through the tightest embrace they could conjure.

After eight long years of work commitments and clashing plans, they were finally, _finally_ , spending Christmas Eve together, just as they had when they were younger - this time, striving to bicker less and love more.

In the distance they could hear church bells ringing as they kissed in the floating snowflakes, bathed in the faint multi-colour of the village square's twinkling Christmas lights. Francis burst into euphoric laughter when they just barely parted lips, burying his stubbly chin in his thick woollen scarf as he dipped his head to warm his chin and hide his beaming, delighted smile at Arthur's tempestuous, somewhat embarrassed gaze. Work commitments had already been keeping them apart for months - it was the sweetest sight, how Arthur would almost act as if they were kissing for the first time after a while apart, all hot, flushed cheeks as if feverish, his eyes shining and eager, lips gentle and cautious. It reminded Francis of their very first sober kiss, ginger but exhilarating, unspoiled by the nervous shock that set in afterwards. Before then, Francis thought he knew the taste of a divine kiss, but that kiss with Arthur had been Francis’ first real taste of once.

Francis’ sapphire eyes settled on Arthur's relaxed, thick brow and admired the snowflakes caught atop the dark hairs. Arthur’s emerald eyes flitted over the flakes caught in France's long curling eyelashes. The snow around them was dusted in crunchy frost and it glittered in the dim village lights, as did the ends of the waving blond hair that was poking out from under Francis’ hat (which Arthur had knitted two years ago), and _dear God_ should Arthur dwell on why he feels so peaceful and contented with Francis like this? He might just die of the breathlessness and warmth tickling his chest. It wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling, not at all. It was much too comfortable and it was for the best that Arthur decided not to dwell much on how they got to this point at that moment – the wonder of such a miracle would make them both dizzy.

"You're _still_ a terrible kisser." Arthur grumbled, a harmless white lie. Francis knew this and he bit his lip to stifle another laugh. Francis was perfect in _every_ way and Arthur didn’t doubt Francis knew that Arthur thought it.

"I'm not surprised when I haven't had you around to kiss, mon lapin." Francis reminded him with solemn sincerity, thinking it was impossible for Arthur's expression to soften more than it already had, but somehow, it did. "What was it this time, mon cher. Too much tongue?" Francis then hummed, cocking a head, the quiet moment in which they were reflecting on months of pining and extortionate phone bills melting away with the playful smile that bloomed on Francis' lips and the tease in his tone. It enticed the Englishman into leaning in closer the slightest bit more.

"Mm. Not enough, actually." Arthur critiqued, feigning stoic and seriousness. Francis squeaked and laughed enthusiastically as Arthur boldly pulled him into a harder, steamier kiss. With each moment they savoured, the yearning that had built up over months of distance eased the slightest bit more.

"Oh Angleterre~ Public displays? Could it be that you missed me?" cooed Francis when he finally grabbed at the chance to inhale some crispy cold, peat-scented air. Arthur took one look into his partner's flirtatious blue gaze, eyes flickering to the accompanying coy lips and forced a dismissive, nonchalant expression in return. All an act, of course.

"Not quite, but boredom does strange things to a gentleman.” Downplayed Arthur. “Everyone needs an interest or two." Arthur’s straight face threatened to crack.

"So I'm just one of your hobbies?" the Frenchman raised his brow, almost evocatively, his lip curling.

Finally, Arthur's need to smile won out and it blossomed into a grin, something between amused and pleased. "Perhaps."

"Oh you're so bad, completely _horrible_! I thought we were so much more! I can't believe you would lead me on like this-" exclaimed Francis in faux dramatic indignation, falling back to lean a fraction of his weight on a snow covered garden wall behind him as he tugged Arthur flush against him to look up into Arthur’s face. Francis knew full and well that Arthur was only joking with him – in a way, he doesn't care what he is to Arthur, or what he means to Arthur, it doesn’t matter if they're in a relationship or not - if it’s formal or something loose and undefined. None of that really matters to Francis when he already knows he is the centre of Arthur's universe. All that _really_ matters is that Arthur is aware than he’s also the centre of Francis' universe and that they’re together in some shape or form. That's enough for him.

"Oi, sssh," Pressing a finger to Francis' lips, Arthur wet his own. "Do you hear that?"

Francis quieted for a moment and listened beyond Arthur's homely voice. "The sound of the poodle barking at us through the window of that house behind us?"

Arthur’s brow furrowed. "What? No!” he proclaimed. “It's the sound of you _not_ lavishing me with the attention and adoration I need!”

Francis cackled delightedly at Arthur’s persistent and high-spirited shenanigans. That laughter is randy and Arthur adored it.

“I’m more than happy to fix that, mon amour~” Murmured Francis as he lent in, Arthur barely able to wait.

They've no sooner returned to their previous actions before they're interrupted. A trio of tipsy woman on their way home after having a few glasses of wine in the cosy confines of the same pub giggle and hug each other closer, the three of them linked arm in arm to keep warm and help each other navigate through the lumpy snow obscuring patches of ice. If Francis and Arthur hadn’t been preoccupied, they would’ve found the women's disastrously unbalanced approach hilarious. One recognised Arthur and immediately started waving sloppily yet fervently at the familiar face of her fellow villager.

"Is that Kirkland? _Oh my God_ , it is! Have a very merry Christmas, Kirkland!" she shouted from across the deserted road, the other two parroting her merrily. "You too, Kirkland's mysterious fella we had no idea existed!" She added.

The chorus of laughter from her friends is as sweet and uplifting as the carolling echoing out of the open doors of a church up the road.

Pausing in his blatant snogging, Arthur smiled awkwardly, and plentifully flustered, over at them as he tried to poignantly ignore the warm kisses that Francis was planting to the underside of his jaw, nose nudging him gently.

"Er, yes, merry Christmas to you three too, have a good one!" The Englishman replied. Francis finally relented and peered around Arthur from where he rested his ass on a snow covered garden wall.

"Joyeux Noël, mes beau chéries! And I hope next year is merrier than the last!" Francis called out and winked at the three women before capturing Arthur's lips in another kiss. The Englishman’s mouth still had a slight twang from the cider earlier in the evening. The women immediately erupted into dramatic swoons.

"Oooh my, he's French? Doesn't Kirkland hate the French?" One of the women wondered.

"Yeah, but have you ever shagged a Frenchman Cheryl?" Her friend asked a little too loudly, as if it was one of the stupidest questions she'd ever been asked. Francis muffled his cackles in the thick fabric of Arthur's scarf, inhaling the smell of fresh, smoky air and the wine that had muted the scent of Arthur's aftershave. As he did so, he held Arthur closer, inhaling deep as he made a small noise of satisfaction in the back of his throat. Yves Saint Laurent, one of Francis' favourites. Was Arthur wearing it because he knew Francis liked it so much? The Englishman's lips grazed his temple.

"Gosh Adele, learnt something about you today! When were you going to tell us this?" The last woman said flippantly, voice fading into the distance.

The ladies wandered on up the gently sloping cobbles coated in layers of snow -the equivalent of a hike and half when tipsy and in the wrong pair of shoes. At the top of the road, they begin to drunkenly harmonise Christmas carols.

"Stop sniggering where you think I can't see you and return to what you were doing beforehand, Stubble - I was enjoying that." Arthur bossed with a huff, his hand slipping up Francis' coat clad chest to adjust Francis' scarf.

"Mon Dieu- can we at least make it back to yours?” Francis asked as Arthur’s fingers found their way into the base of thick curling hair at the nape of Francis' neck and he lent in to initiate another kiss. “Aren’t you freezing your ass of out here? I can’t feel mine.” continued the Frenchman.

"Fine, fine. I understand I'm a bit full on- It's just- I-I'll admit, I missed you Francis." Arthur stammered, cheeks flushing again at the thought at being even remotely emotive with his words – which he always did well, although he constantly doubted it.

“I missed you more, mon amour.” Francis revealed, thumb grazing back and forth across the curve of Arthur’s jaw. His eyes then flickered over Arthur's earnest face lovingly and Arthur exhaled serenely at the sheer amount of adoration written in Francis' smile. With no eyes on them, no distractions beyond the distant, beautiful carolling in the church up ahead – and the atrocious, out-of-tune addition of the women- they could truly marvel and cherish the depth of their relationship, focus on how much they meant to one another.

"You're everything," Francis whispered. _Arthur means everything to me_.

“Hmm?” Arthur hummed at the word coming out of nowhere. At the curiosity and question in Arthur's eyes, Francis explained with one last kiss, or at least, the last kiss for now.

“Have a Merry Christmas, my dear rabbit,” Francis whispered softly, his eyes still closed as his breath mingling with Arthur’s, their lips skimming as he says it.

“Joyeux Noël à toi aussi, mon charmant grenouille.” Arthur tenderly answered in a heartbeat. His French pronunciation isn't perfect, but Francis is too smitten to even notice, or care.

It's a wonder the snow hasn't melted around them.


	2. Christmas Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Francis is playing on the gramophone is Ev’ry Day I Love You (Just A Little Bit More) by Jo Stafford which I can only seem to find on YouTube.
> 
> Let’s pretend timezones don’t exist for a sec lmao (My big dumbass energy is strong here) or Arthur’s just having a super late Christmas dinner and Matthew’s having a super early one.

When Matthew rang on Christmas day to wish him a merry one, Arthur was left stuttering for a plausible explanation as to why Francis had been the one to answer the phone.

'Accidentally', the Frenchman mouthed at him from where he retreated back into the kitchen in his pink frilly apron with 'I'm as delicious as the food I make' on it, smirking over his shoulder at a glowing red Arthur's struggle. What a goddamn sadistic arsehole, the Englishman thought.

"So you're spending Christmas day with France?" The Canadian asks softly over the line, a note of surprise in his voice. "That's really nice." It's almost as if Arthur can hear the smile in his tone, too.

"I am, yes, _reluctantly_ and er- and my siblings! Scotland thought I could use a hand cooking the food. _Bastards,_ _the lot of them_." He replied a little too hurriedly. It wasn't that Arthur minded Matthew realising Arthur and Francis were closer than most would suspect, his reaction was simply borne out of centuries of trying to throw everyone, including Francis himself, of his scent that he might be more sentimental than what meets the eye... and Arthur supposed he wasn't ready for the copious amounts of questions and pisstaking should Alfred catch wind of things, either.

Perhaps one day it would be time for the world, and more disconcertingly; their bosses, to know. For now, they were happy to keep things the way they were.

The aroma of slow roasting pork, beef and potatoes wafting up the hallway and assaulting Arthur's nose was making him involuntarily salivate. _Goddamn it, Frog._

"How are America and Cuba? Are they helping you cook, any?" Arthur quickly asked, changing the subject. There's a little puff of air down the line, a tell-tale sign that Matthew was laughing.

"They're doing their part. It's harder work trying to stop Al eating the deserts early than it would be to actually cook everything by myself. Kumajiki has volunteered to guard the fridge freezer, though." Arthur almost snorted in amusement at the hint of exasperation in Matthew's tone, "Thanks for the card, sweater and new hockey stick by the way, I love them." The Canadian said sincerity.

"I'm glad! It really doesn't compare to the antique crockery set you got me, Canada. It's gorgeous. Thank you."

"It wasn't a problem!" Matthew insisted, Arthur smiled fondly at hearing the fluster in his voice. The two talked for a while longer before the food cried out for Matthew's attention via the smoke alarm on his end. With a rushed goodbye and amusement glittering in his eyes at Matthew's quiet curse, then constant subsequent and excessive apologising for it (it was as if Matthew thought Arthur didn’t swear like a sailor and therefore would disapprove), Arthur said his goodbyes, reluctantly hung up and sought out Francis.

He found his pert French ass stuck in the air, his head buried in Arthur’s old chest of cherished records beside the CD rack.

"Go on, spank it," called out his flamboyant voice, muffled in the chest. "I feel your eyes on mon derrière, I know you want to."

"I'm more tempted to kick it," Arthur replied as he stopped beside him, brows raised in curiosity. 

"That's more or less the same thing for us, no?" Francis beamed, blinking up at him with mirthful eyes.

“Oi, shut it. I haven’t kicked your ass properly in over a century now, I’m certainly not doing it on today, of all days.” Arthur said as if exasperated, yet his breath caught slightly as Francis chuckled and winked at him over his shoulder. The Englishman coolly looked away from his companion’s affectionate eyes every time Francis glanced over his shoulder to see if he could catch Arthur’s eyes straying as he tried to work out why he was going on an archaeological dig through some of his oldest music. The Englishman folded his arms and cleared his throat, doing his very best to straighten out his smile and force the flush from his neck. “What are you doing anyway?" he eventually caved to curiosity to ask. “What could you possibly be up to? Should I start making battle plans?”

"Ah non, I’m simply looking for your fairy friends, of course." Francis teased, pulling out a record and holding it aloft in victory. "Ahh ha!"

A small giggle filtered out from within the Christmas tree, in which Tinkerbell was leaving a shower of sparkles over the evergreen branches as she fluttered in and around the gleaming silver, gold and red baubles, wings brushing tinsel, camouflaged by the twinkling and blinking tree lights. Arthur spies her sitting on the back of a fake robin figurine attached to a branch a moment later. Among the presents below, Mint Bunny peeks out at him. Arthur smiles at them both.

"I hate you so much, Frog." Complained Arthur redundantly, turning his attention back to Francis when Francis started to study the lights, about to question what Arthur was smiling at. The Englishman tried to snatch the record from him to read it, but Francis quickly held it out of reach to glide towards the door, the timer on the oven summoning him.

"I’ll try my best to believe you, _lover_ ~" Francis winked at Arthur one last time as he disappeared through the arch of the door, sing-songing as he walked up the hall. "Remember mon cher, you can _only_ enter the Kitchen at half hour intervals and under supervision, d'accord? And you're not allowed to touch _anything._ "

"Yes, yes. _Fine_." Arthur agreed begrudgingly, redirecting his small tickled smile out the living room window at the floating snow. Francis _truly_ believed the pots, pans and appliances acted up if he stood around them too long, and yet he called Arthur the superstitious one. What an odd, bizarre, offensive man.

Two peas in a pod, most would say.

When Arthur next entered the kitchen, his steps faltered. With wide eyes, he stared in surprise as Francis held out his hand out in await, smiling warmly at him. As the glittering snowflakes landing on the window melt, Arthur felt his cheeks warm substantially. Perhaps he ought to turn down the thermostat.

"What the bloody Hell is all this?" he asked, flustered and bemused while taking Francis' hand - moisturised and smooth, yet Arthur noticed the small burn on his thumb. Even great chefs like Francis had the odd blip in the kitchen, it seemed.

The room was dark but alight with a ridiculous number of candles, bathing everything in warm amber and the aroma of cinnamon scented wax. Across the floor and surfaces, rose petals had been scattered alongside the sprinklings of pine foliage and glitter. On Arthur's vintage gramophone, which had been in the attic as far as he knew, Francis' all-time favourite Jo Stafford record was playing, crackling with static and scratching softly, but it was still velvet to Arthur’s old ears. He could almost feel himself getting entangled in the past like it was unkempt ivy as his emerald eyes clouded with memories. Francis gently bundled him close, fond reminiscence in his own sapphire irises.

From the light above them, a small vine of mistletoe dangled, awaiting the moment.

The song meant as much to Arthur as it did to Francis. To the soft melody of saxophones and pianos, the American singer sang sweetly about loving a man a little bit more everyday, wanting him a little bit more than she had the day before.

As he settled against Francis’ body, Arthur's heart swelled, beating a little bit harder, a steady rhythm that's different to the erratic needy thundering of lust that electrified every inch of his body on those cold winter nights enveloped in the heat of his duvet and his lover's body. Instead, this spread and radiated heat through him slowly and like the kiss of warm sunlight on skin, it soothed and smoothed out the tension he never knew he held and he dwelled on how this feeling used to scare him, but now? It made him feel a little bit younger and sprier every time it happened.

And only Francis had ever been able to entice that feeling in him.

The singer sang on, confessing that compared to her love, the Mississippi River is but a stream, that her lover would never be able to guess how much she really, _truly,_ loves him.

Arthur had thought the same of Francis too, hopelessly so, back in the late forties.

The Englishman didn't get an explanation straight away for the sudden romantic notion the Frenchman had taken, especially in the middle of stressing over a dinner for six (Not that Arthur ever minded when Francis took romantic notions - which is, unsurprisingly, quite often, the sappy man that he was, nor did he ever seem to stress while he cooked, miraculously), but it doesn't matter as he listened to Francis hum charmingly along, and Arthur's steps fell into time with Francis’ as they began to slow dance, supporting one another with a posture only centuries of dancing could cultivate .

But proper posturing put distance between them and gradually, they slip into a hold that allows them to get more intimate. Francis' hands held his hips loosely, then slid around to cradle Arthur's lower back, and Arthur shifted in Francis’ arms, slipping his arms around Francis’ neck.

For a moment, they've forgotten they'll soon have guests to entertain.

They first danced to this song in a dance club in Normandy during the turn of the 40s, the 50s peaking over the horizon and the Second World War behind them. Francis had wanted to apologise for poking fun at Arthur's two piece tweed suit, and Arthur, still irked, reluctantly took Francis’ hand, already concocting gripes about Francis’ dancing in his head.

Then, before Arthur could get an insult out, Francis had stopped his heart with a simple sentence.

"This probably sounds silly," Francis had murmured back then, hurriedly looking away from Arthur's gaze and watching the couple next to them dance under dim lights reflecting off a vanished wooden dance floor, cheeks pinkening suspiciously despite the lack of any kind of alcohol involved. Miraculously, Francis didn't stand on Arthur's toes as he did so.

"You've French. Everything you say sounds silly." Answered Arthur wryly in response. "At least, to me, anyway."

Francis looked back at him, meeting Arthur's peering bemused green eyes, a gentle storm in his own blue ones. "Ah. Well, on that note, I think I might love you." he said quietly, voice trembling slightly and a tad hoarse at getting the confession out in the open. “Je t’aime, Angleterre.” The Frenchman then tried again, to sound a little more confident, to no avail, even in his own tongue.

The confession was met with silence and stupefied wide eyes from his dance partner, then Arthur had stood on Francis’ toes before the dancing between them completely stopped. There was a strange foreign self-conscious worry in Francis’ startlingly blue eyes, usually so self-assured and confident with everything he said or done, as they flitted over Arthur's paling face nervously. "A-Angleterre?" He barely whispered. Francis wasn't sure if it was both he and Arthur's palms sweating, or just his own.

Arthur's frantic eyes couldn't find a lie, or a joke. There was no insincerity in the fearful apprehension of Francis’ face. It had truly been said.

“Ah,” After what felt like an eternity to Francis, Arthur finally seemed to breath, breath quivering, heart hammering so hard it physically hurt. "E-excuse me for a moment-"

And Arthur - in a confused, dizzy, breathless, _stupidly idiotically_ _daft_ panic - had pulled away, leaving Francis by his lonesome in the middle of the dance floor watching the Englishman’s retreating back with a crumbling expression.

It had been an odd moment for Arthur, because truthfully, he'd felt similar. How could he not when they'd started sleeping together on and off during the 19th century, then routinely began doing candlelit dinners that were supposedly never romantic and dates that they'd labelled casual after the signing of the Entente, then after World War 1 came to a close, they started holidaying in each other's countries for a short period every year despite their bosses not asking anything from them and all the complaining each of them did about it, the other’s company, and the other's country.

But it had frightened Arthur that Francis had given the feeling, their connection, a name. It was something he had simultaneously wanted _so much_ , yet _dreaded_.

Love, as beautiful and blissful as it could be, was frightening for everyone, especially Arthur – he’d lose humans if he opened his heart to them, and with other nations he would have to be with another for eternity - it was one hefty, eternal commitment, something seemingly unattainable when a personified nation was torn between the will of his people and the desire of his own heart. It was an agonising dilemma for the Englishman, because for as long as Arthur could remember, he had pretended he didn't feel love, fall in love. Splendid isolation was a fantastic defence mechanism, albeit lonely all the same.

Somehow, Francis had permeated what Arthur had always considered a cold stone in place of his heart. Of all the nations, it just _had_ to be _Francis_ , and he'd given their connection the name of one thing Arthur couldn’t possibly dread more than anything else.

Love.

So, at a loss at how to respond the day of Francis’s confession, Arthur bolted and broke Francis heart, pushed the Frenchman away, whether in letters or in person, in the aftermath. They weren't intimate for at least 10 years after it. Those were perhaps the most miserable ten years since the end of the war.

As they dance now, Arthur should feel guilty at the sound of the song… but he can't, not when he knows how much it means to Francis, not when Francis insisted that Arthur was silly for needing to continually apologize about that day, even now, and not when Arthur had used it to set things right and confess his own feelings 11 years later, in the summer of 1960.

Before he could start dwelling on that event, Francis spoke, breaking him out of his reverie.

"I was feeling nostalgic," Francis started to explain softly. "And I thought this would be the only peace and quiet we'd get for a long while." he chuckled - it's quiet, and sweet, like chocolate. Chocolate is what Arthur considers his only weakness, besides a good cup of scalding tea and the odd fry-up. "Ireland's rowdiness is on par with Scotland's, no?" the Frenchman added.

"Be warned," Arthur said, smile now bashful as he looked down at their feet as they slow-danced. "My brothers will be acting like raving lunatics if they have to wait too long for dinner – hangry wanks, so they are, it's like trying to feed a zoo," He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself smiling too obviously before looking away from the twinkle of mirth and candlelight in Francis eyes. Arthur stepped closer to him, cheek grazing Francis’ warm and smooth one. The Frenchman’s bearded jaw tickled ever so slightly. "I can’t believe all the misfits agreed to come to mine this year without a fight, too. A Christmas miracle.” Arthur pondered.

“Or perhaps you all like each other more than you think, despite the differences.” Francis hummed, pinching Arthur’s side playfully, to which the Englishman wriggled and swatted Francis’ hand.

"No, I’m almost certain it’s because I might have mentioned you were head chef,” the Englishman heaved a loud and dramatic sigh, a precursor to his moaning and groaning. A tickled smile lingered on Francis’ lips as they swayed gently to the sweet melody. “Why does everyone reconsider their lives when a French cook is involved?” bemoaned Arthur.

“You put such a unique flair on flattery,” Francis snickered, nose wrinkling as he turned his head to nose Arthur’s cheekbone. “And I’m supposed to be the head chef? You talk as if you’re the sous-chef, Angleterre.”

“I’m not?” Arthur asked, vaguely gobsmacked. “It’s my kitchen.”

“Doesn’t automatically make you the sous chef just because you own the restaurant~” Pressing his face into Arthur’s shoulder, Francis could mask his laughter, but not the glee in his tone.

“Look, can’t you pretend I helped you with the cooking _this once_?” The exasperation in Arthur’s tone was delightful. “Aren’t you offering to cook for me out of love? Couldn’t shared credit be an extension of that, too?” he then reasoned redundantly, already knowing it was a losing battle. “We can use our hard work as an excuse to get them to do all the washing up- we might even get the living room to ourselves for a whole 5 minutes, too – I’ll give you a back rub and everything- show you how much I _really_ love you.”

“Ooh Angleterre I’m _tempted_ ,” Arthur turned a head to see Francis’ eyes twinkling. The warmth of the candles didn’t even compare in comparison. “Je t'aime, but a Frenchman letting an Englishman share the praise on his chef d'oeuvre? Could you imagine?”

“Just barely,” Arthur smirked and slid a hand from Francis neck to pinch Francis bearded chin. “Well then, you better woo this kitchen and deliver on all of that talk, you old Frog.”

Francis laughed again by Arthur's ear and it's breathy, warm and compelling. He likens it to the warmth of breath on frozen fingers, and Arthur leans in to it. “Is that all I am to you, a personal chef?" Francis complained, fauxly.

"Not at all," Arthur insisted, "but I’m not going to deny you’re a damn good cook on Christmas-"

"Mon Dieu!" Francis cried out, pulling back and staring into England's alarmed eyes.

"What!?"England immediately fretted, the romantic atmosphere shattering. "Oh my God, I’ve jinxed everything, haven’t I? Is it the turkey! Bollocks, it's the Turkey isn't it, you forgot to put the turkey in, didn't you!?” Arthur’s head whipped around in a panic. “Oh my God, this is the third year in a row of the turkey going tits up- Oh my bloody- You absolute _dunce_!-“

"Angleterre, you admitted it-" Francis exclaimed ecstatically, "that you appreciate my culinary masterpieces!" He twirled Arthur around, Arthur effing and blinding at the realisation, following Francis' footwork with his own sock clad feet. "I can't believe you think my cooking is superior to yours!" Francis added, with the purest intention to tease.

"Superior? I would _never_ say such a thing, that's utterly preposterous!"

“Do you think you’re subtle~?”

With the panic about the turkey disintegrating, Arthur lightly swatted Francis shoulder with his fingertips, yet he lent in closer, lips ghosting Francis'. "I'm not going to devote Christmas Day to arguing with you, but keep taking the piss out of me like this and your bollocks will be on the line tonight."

France's eyebrows lifted into his hairline, "Is that threat, or a promise-?"

Arthur's lip may have curled, but Arthur was not the man to interrupt Francis.

"Want me te git out a sax an' play George Michael's Careless Whisper for ye, boys?" interrupted a third voice, loud, thick and very _very_ Scottish. "An' Merry Christmas, by the way!"

Blaine Kirkland swept in though the open doorway, trailing melted snow and grass blades behind him with his heavy duty boots he used to trek his hilly farmland in the North. His laughter is utterly booming, ruining the romantically randy moment and the kiss under the mistletoe that could've been between Arthur and Francis as they leapt to the opposite ends of the room. "Let me’self an' the other wallopers in!" Explained the burly Scotsman aloofly, jingling his keys in the air and tossing them towards Arthur to clamber and catch. "Ah keen also play it on me bagpipes, if ye’d prefer shaggin’ te at?"

"Ah, Merde..." Francis breathed, hand pressing to his chest at the sudden freight. " _Ecosse_... salut! Joyeux Noel!"

"Sorry for that, Francie." The Scotsman apologized, his green eyes that were so similar to England's shining with glee and no remorse whatsoever for frightening him as he playfully tugs on a stand of Francis’ hair on the way past.

 _Towards the food_. Francis realised, _oh no_.

"Dinnae worry lads, ah’ll keep me gob shut. The shittest kept secret that yer both at it like rabbits is safe wae me!" Blaine announced, pausing to eat the last piece of chocolate in Arthur's advent calendar hanging on the wall beside the fridge. The Englishman blanched as his eldest brother continued to chatter on. Outside the front door, the faint commotion of a pair of Irish twins, a Welshman and said Welshman’s newest baby dragon was beginning. 

"I pride myself in no’ bein’ a gossip, especially 'bout me wee brother. " Blaine said Ironically, then laughed heartily, fearlessly, in the face of Arthur's irritation and winked at Francis. No storm frightened a highlander, least of all an English one in the making. "I'll leave the mouthin' te Fergal. You might want te sweep uppa roses before the others come in ‘ere if ye wanna stay inne closet, though – no’ that yer doin’ a very good job of it. The candles are cute though. Nice and Christmassy.” Blaine’s sharp eyes honed in on the little chocolate hazelnut balls stacked up beautifully beside a giant chocolate gateaux (Which Arthur had _shockingly_ baked _perfectly_ ). “Oooh, do ah see Ferrero Rochers? _Git in me, ya wee nutty bastards_!" he cried out joyfully. "Now all ah need is the Baileys an' the celebrations can begin!"

"Blaine, you _fucking turd_!" Arthur finally hollered once he could get a word in edgewise. "And what did I tell you about taking off your shoes at the door?! _My carpets_!"

"If am a turd then am the best smellin’ shit in the UK, I'll tell ye ‘at much." Blaine stated matter-of-factly, wasting no time cracking open the cream liqueur and picking at the cooking food prematurely. Francis snickered, flipped on the light switch and got to work brushing up the evidence as Arthur jumped to protect the food with his life. Blaine managed to stuff seven _undercooked_ stuffing balls (Dear Lord, did all of Arthur’s siblings have such an aversion to eating properly cooked food, Francis wondered?) into his gob before he fled to the living room, getting away scot free. 

Perhaps Arthur and Francis will get a quiet moment among all of the camaraderie and chaos for a kiss under the mistletoe later, or perhaps they won't. They aren't too bothered about whether they do or don't - they're simply ecstatic that they don't need mistletoe as an excuse to share a kiss anymore, and that they're with one another in person to enjoy the festivities. This year, they can kiss as much as they'd like.

**Author's Note:**

> Have a Merry Christmas and a happy New Year everyone!


End file.
